This world is falling down around me
And I can’t tell what’s water
And what’s just tears.
Why should I be the one who’s sad and angry?
Why do I have to be the one who’s lonely and scared?
I miss the days when I was little, when you
Could wrap me in your arms and numb my deepest fears.
Now I see I was a fool for thinking I could count on you.
I was a fool for honestly believing that you cared.
I don’t want this anymore. Not this pain and not this strife.
Because it hurts so much, and you don’t even know,
Like a knife wound to my heart.
I didn’t ask for this.
Such a long journey for so little, just to find that in the end
You weren’t worth it.
So take your imaginary curse and shove it up your ass.
Forget me.
Forget that I exist, so that I can forget that you exist.
If I could have it my way, you would have walked away years ago.
Forever.
You would have vanished into the sun,
Disintegrated into the sand.
Then I wouldn’t have to feel this bite of apathy.
I wouldn’t have to go through this, your leaving,
Over and over and over.
I don’t want to follow you all over, just to see if you’re going to start to care.
And I shouldn’t have to be the one
Who sits and cries alone, who wonders what it’s like
To be happy.
To be truly happy.
All because of you.
If only I had been born as someone else,
Then I wouldn’t know you, and you wouldn’t be able to hurt me.
So you can go away, and you can take your new life,
Go to your new world and leave me in the old.
And you can do whatever you want there, and let my face fade away.
And I can walk away into this city, and stand under the iron
and the sun
And see if it devours me.
See if it takes my blood.
And then I can watch you drift away, like a photograph in time,
And I can say I knew my father once, and that he left.
Then I’ll just be a statistic, just another homeless waif,
And everyone will pity me, and throw it in your face.
Then some day I won’t need you anymore, and the wound will scar,
And the pain will fall away.
Then I’ll be stronger still—stronger than you could ever be.
And who will I have to thank for that?
Not you—but Me.
But…
But I did want you so bad.
I did want you beside me amidst the pain and the darkness,
When the only sound I heard was screaming in the night,
When the fear was thick as blood,
And the helplessness was a cloud of fog,
That I could nearly cut into with a knife.
So tangible, so palpable, like a slash across my heart,
Like the tears on my cheeks.
I close my eyes and think ‘If only you had been there.’
And even now I think, ‘If only you could be there.’
All I ever wanted was just to be near you, if only for a moment,
If only to smell you and hear your voice, and pretend that I was safe.
Pretend you could protect me.
I just wanted you in my life,
Now I’m just scared you’ll walk away and never come back,
You’ll go to your new world with your new woman,
And you’ll forget that I ever existed.
Sometimes
I have flashbacks, like in a movie or a dream.
I see flashes of you: running beside the car, making promises you can’t keep,
Walking out of the house, with that suitcase in your hand,
Crying.
I see you at my graduation. I see you at my birthday.
I feel your hand on my shoulder as I sit at grandma’s funeral.
And I wonder ‘Where did all that go?’
Why is there so much pain between you and I?
I am not my mother. Everything she said, everything she did,
However deep she sank her claws in,
Whatever black thoughts she provoked in you
They’re not mine. That’s not me.
I love you. I love you with all my heart.
You can’t keep me in the dark like this:
I’m done.
I’m shaking off your shackles, now,
I’m walking to the sun.
And you’re going to the new world.And I am just the old.
You’ll forget about me, somewhere between mountains and sky,
I’ll just be someone that you knew once.
And you’ll just be the biggest scar on my heart.
So walk into the new world. Take your woman. Take your dog.
Kiss me goodbye, leave me without a dime.
I don’t need you anymore:
And I’ll take down your picture, and I’ll forget your voice.
I’ll call you up some Christmas, or your birthday.
By then this pain will be numb,
I hope,
And you’ll be
The most painful thing in my past.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Walking on a Snowy Day
I like to walk alone, especially in weather that most people consider bad, because I enjoy the solitude of my own, private thoughts. As I walk through the streets of downtown Denver, partly walking for the hell of it, and partly for the purpose of buying batteries and coffee, it’s barely drizzling, a faint spray of leftover rain spattering across my face, and I’m in no hurry. Batteries are essential. Coffee is not. But I like to have a hot drink on a crisp day. And no day has ever been crisper than this one: the sky is gray and overcast, the way I like it best, and there are deep, shivering puddles created from the driving rain that came earlier. It’s a good day for smoking, I think, but I refrain because I’ve been smoking too much lately.
All around me the buildings tower, like great, metallic trees, and I feel that I’m lost in a concrete jungle. There is such singularity in walking by myself through the city streets, a poetry to being among so many people, and yet utterly alone. In a way, I prefer that loneliness to the laughter and companionship of others, and I often wonder if there’s something missing inside me—whatever it is that drives human beings to seek one another out.
I know there’s not, and yet, just the same, today, with the cold rain on my face, and the chill air in my lungs, I feel strong and alive, and I’m glad that I’m alone. I’m glad there’s no one to complain about the weather and the city I love so much. Glad there’s no overprotective man to put his arm around me in a futile attempt to keep me warm. I feel braver than the ones who duck inside from the rain, stronger than those holding umbrellas above their dry heads. In truth, I’m likely lacking some mandatory form of common sense—sense to come in out of the rain. I’ve gotten along find without it for twenty years, and I don’t need it now.
I keep walking, pulling my boyfriend’s hat down over my eyes and crossing streets at my leisure. There are puddles everywhere—some shallow, some deep. I like to walk through them, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the child in me that’s not died yet, or perhaps it has more to do with my unexplainable to desire to ignore what other people consider proper, and to go against any grain I find. To buck authority and popular trends. Not that hopping over puddles is a trend.
It’s not quite raining when I reach Walgreens, and my hair’s not even damp. I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed. Still, I came for batteries, so I go inside from the weather and spend thirty minutes talking myself in and out of buying things, until I make my final selections—two packs of batteries on sale for a good price, and a Ben Stiller movie—and step into the line. I toy with the idea of buying a cigarette lighter, but I just bought one I like last night and don’t need another.
The weather has not changed much when I leave Walgreens, and I’m beginning to think that perhaps the weathermen were wrong about the snow that’s supposed to hit. Unless it cools off, the rain will likely just die, and tomorrow the sun will shine.
And now it’s time for coffee. Coffee is something I’m not addicted to, yet, and like cigarettes, I try to only have it on special occasions: days like this are perfect. I think about where I want to buy it as I walk. Initially I was thinking I’d buy it at the new café down the street, just to spite Starbucks, but I spent more money that I meant to in Walgreens, so I opt for 711 instead, make a quick U-turn to go back a block.
711 turns out to be a bit disappointing. They don’t have the creamer I like, and I’m hungry, so I spend nearly fifteen minutes reminding myself that I shouldn’t waste money on food. Though, at home Vicki hasn’t been making dinner lately; that annoys me, and part of me feels that if I buy my own food it will be a mild retaliation. At last I overcome my urge to spend money frivolously and escape with naught but the coffee.
Outside, the storm has picked up. What falls from the sky is not quite rain, but neither is it snow. I’d call it sleet, except that it’s characterized by tiny ice crystals, a bit like hail. It’s not accumulating yet, and maybe it won’t, but as I walk it coats my shoulders and the front of my hoodie, likely my backpack and my boyfriend’s hat as well. Still, I’m in no hurry. The coffee is warm for now, and I walk with my eyes fixed on the sky where the snow is driving down from. I assume the people I pass think I’m an air-headed kid for keeping my eyes always above me, but then I correct myself, doubting that I’m that remarkable. In fact, most of them likely pass me without noticing I exist. That’s how the city is. That’s how humanity is. We are all faceless strangers to one another.
I breathe deeply. I can see my breath steaming before my face, and I like that. The weather has picked up, so there are very few people out now. I like that as well. I pass a man who’s smoking and I can smell the tobacco: it makes me want a cigarette as well, and I almost reach for one before I stop myself. Not today.
My hair is getting wet now. I have a hood, but I’m not wearing it, and I’m not wearing it on purpose. If I wanted to wear it I would put it up, but I like the feel of the sleet on my neck. The coffee’s getting cold as well, rather quickly. Snow drops hit the lid and melt immediately, covering my cup with dew so that when I lift it to take a drink the drops run down onto my face and off my chin.
It’s a marvelous day for walking—other people are cramming themselves onto the bus or hiding under shop awnings, but I like the walk. I like the chill in the air and the sleet falling from the sky. However, when I pass Barnes and Noble, and think about the smell of books inside, and the warmth of the café, I almost go inside, I must admit. There’s no time for that, I tell myself. I’m due back at the school by six, and it’s five now. I wouldn’t want to make him wait.
After all, I’m already taking my time, walking slowly, sloshing through puddles and waiting for the lights to change. I like to hesitate by the alleys and look down them and think about how much I love the city. I like walking.
Now my coffee is very cold, no longer keeping my hands warm, so I finish it quickly, dumping what little is left in my mouth. Drops run down my face, but I don’t know if it’s the snow or coffee dripping from the lid. I wipe it away. The sleeve of my hoodie is soaked and does me little good. By this time I probably look miserable, but I’m feeling fine. I’m thinking rainy days are so much more interesting than sunny ones, good not only for walking, but also for holing up somewhere to write or read or watch a movie. Even if the power goes out this is perfect weather for just lying in bed and listening to music.
It’s coming down harder than ever, and I’m passing the bus station on Colfax where I can smell reefer. I know that people like to sell weed there, because I’ve stood there before, debating whether or not to get on the bus, and if so, which bus to take. It makes me want to smoke even more, and I wonder if I could even get my cigarette to light in this wind. It doesn’t matter—I’m not going to smoke today.
I see a man and a woman together and I wonder what it’s like to be in love with someone. I wonder if I’ll ever feel it, and if I like it. Before I’ve feared that I’m not fit to be loved, and that I’m not capable of love, but I’m not sure why. I fear the coldness inside me more than I fear anything else, and at the same time, I’m not sure how real it is.
By the time I cross thirteenth, the snow is beginning to accumulate on the sidewalks, and I’m ready to dry off. I hope vaguely that my brother and sister might have come up from the Springs to visit, but I don’t expect it. Chances are, the weather stopped them, even if they meant to come. I miss them very much.
I must be capable of love—why should I be exempt from that emotion when everyone else can feel it? And I do love my brother and sister.
There’s no waiting for lights now: I make my way concisely back to school. I’m convinced now that my siblings are at home waiting for me, though I hardly know why, and I don’t want to keep them waiting. We have to spend as much time together as we can, while we still have the chance.
Back at school, I dispose of my empty coffee cup and go inside. In the bathroom, I dry off as best as I could—I shake the water out of my hair and brush the snow from my backpack and my boyfriend’s hat. I slide that into the backpack at last. It will be safer there. I feel the need to keep it safe because it’s not mine. It’s his.
I wonder why I always hope people will give things to me freely when I know very well that that’s not the way this world works. I don’t need another hat. I’m not even sure why I have it—I just know he put it on my head one sunny day just before I was climbing into the Jeep, and he’s never accepted it back; I’ve tried to return it. It’s not that I don’t want it. I simply don’t understand why he thinks I should have it. I suppose girlfriends wear their boyfriends’ clothing. I suppose that’s why he thinks I should have it.
There’s no hope of drying off here, but I take my pills and slide my hoodie back on, secure my phone and MP3 player. When I get home it will be nice to take a hot shower. I don’t dare to hope for hot food though. That seems to be too much to ask for these days, though I have no idea why.
Everything is in place now. The hat is safe, the coffee is gone, and the snow outside is heavier than ever.
The weathermen were right.
All around me the buildings tower, like great, metallic trees, and I feel that I’m lost in a concrete jungle. There is such singularity in walking by myself through the city streets, a poetry to being among so many people, and yet utterly alone. In a way, I prefer that loneliness to the laughter and companionship of others, and I often wonder if there’s something missing inside me—whatever it is that drives human beings to seek one another out.
I know there’s not, and yet, just the same, today, with the cold rain on my face, and the chill air in my lungs, I feel strong and alive, and I’m glad that I’m alone. I’m glad there’s no one to complain about the weather and the city I love so much. Glad there’s no overprotective man to put his arm around me in a futile attempt to keep me warm. I feel braver than the ones who duck inside from the rain, stronger than those holding umbrellas above their dry heads. In truth, I’m likely lacking some mandatory form of common sense—sense to come in out of the rain. I’ve gotten along find without it for twenty years, and I don’t need it now.
I keep walking, pulling my boyfriend’s hat down over my eyes and crossing streets at my leisure. There are puddles everywhere—some shallow, some deep. I like to walk through them, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the child in me that’s not died yet, or perhaps it has more to do with my unexplainable to desire to ignore what other people consider proper, and to go against any grain I find. To buck authority and popular trends. Not that hopping over puddles is a trend.
It’s not quite raining when I reach Walgreens, and my hair’s not even damp. I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed. Still, I came for batteries, so I go inside from the weather and spend thirty minutes talking myself in and out of buying things, until I make my final selections—two packs of batteries on sale for a good price, and a Ben Stiller movie—and step into the line. I toy with the idea of buying a cigarette lighter, but I just bought one I like last night and don’t need another.
The weather has not changed much when I leave Walgreens, and I’m beginning to think that perhaps the weathermen were wrong about the snow that’s supposed to hit. Unless it cools off, the rain will likely just die, and tomorrow the sun will shine.
And now it’s time for coffee. Coffee is something I’m not addicted to, yet, and like cigarettes, I try to only have it on special occasions: days like this are perfect. I think about where I want to buy it as I walk. Initially I was thinking I’d buy it at the new café down the street, just to spite Starbucks, but I spent more money that I meant to in Walgreens, so I opt for 711 instead, make a quick U-turn to go back a block.
711 turns out to be a bit disappointing. They don’t have the creamer I like, and I’m hungry, so I spend nearly fifteen minutes reminding myself that I shouldn’t waste money on food. Though, at home Vicki hasn’t been making dinner lately; that annoys me, and part of me feels that if I buy my own food it will be a mild retaliation. At last I overcome my urge to spend money frivolously and escape with naught but the coffee.
Outside, the storm has picked up. What falls from the sky is not quite rain, but neither is it snow. I’d call it sleet, except that it’s characterized by tiny ice crystals, a bit like hail. It’s not accumulating yet, and maybe it won’t, but as I walk it coats my shoulders and the front of my hoodie, likely my backpack and my boyfriend’s hat as well. Still, I’m in no hurry. The coffee is warm for now, and I walk with my eyes fixed on the sky where the snow is driving down from. I assume the people I pass think I’m an air-headed kid for keeping my eyes always above me, but then I correct myself, doubting that I’m that remarkable. In fact, most of them likely pass me without noticing I exist. That’s how the city is. That’s how humanity is. We are all faceless strangers to one another.
I breathe deeply. I can see my breath steaming before my face, and I like that. The weather has picked up, so there are very few people out now. I like that as well. I pass a man who’s smoking and I can smell the tobacco: it makes me want a cigarette as well, and I almost reach for one before I stop myself. Not today.
My hair is getting wet now. I have a hood, but I’m not wearing it, and I’m not wearing it on purpose. If I wanted to wear it I would put it up, but I like the feel of the sleet on my neck. The coffee’s getting cold as well, rather quickly. Snow drops hit the lid and melt immediately, covering my cup with dew so that when I lift it to take a drink the drops run down onto my face and off my chin.
It’s a marvelous day for walking—other people are cramming themselves onto the bus or hiding under shop awnings, but I like the walk. I like the chill in the air and the sleet falling from the sky. However, when I pass Barnes and Noble, and think about the smell of books inside, and the warmth of the café, I almost go inside, I must admit. There’s no time for that, I tell myself. I’m due back at the school by six, and it’s five now. I wouldn’t want to make him wait.
After all, I’m already taking my time, walking slowly, sloshing through puddles and waiting for the lights to change. I like to hesitate by the alleys and look down them and think about how much I love the city. I like walking.
Now my coffee is very cold, no longer keeping my hands warm, so I finish it quickly, dumping what little is left in my mouth. Drops run down my face, but I don’t know if it’s the snow or coffee dripping from the lid. I wipe it away. The sleeve of my hoodie is soaked and does me little good. By this time I probably look miserable, but I’m feeling fine. I’m thinking rainy days are so much more interesting than sunny ones, good not only for walking, but also for holing up somewhere to write or read or watch a movie. Even if the power goes out this is perfect weather for just lying in bed and listening to music.
It’s coming down harder than ever, and I’m passing the bus station on Colfax where I can smell reefer. I know that people like to sell weed there, because I’ve stood there before, debating whether or not to get on the bus, and if so, which bus to take. It makes me want to smoke even more, and I wonder if I could even get my cigarette to light in this wind. It doesn’t matter—I’m not going to smoke today.
I see a man and a woman together and I wonder what it’s like to be in love with someone. I wonder if I’ll ever feel it, and if I like it. Before I’ve feared that I’m not fit to be loved, and that I’m not capable of love, but I’m not sure why. I fear the coldness inside me more than I fear anything else, and at the same time, I’m not sure how real it is.
By the time I cross thirteenth, the snow is beginning to accumulate on the sidewalks, and I’m ready to dry off. I hope vaguely that my brother and sister might have come up from the Springs to visit, but I don’t expect it. Chances are, the weather stopped them, even if they meant to come. I miss them very much.
I must be capable of love—why should I be exempt from that emotion when everyone else can feel it? And I do love my brother and sister.
There’s no waiting for lights now: I make my way concisely back to school. I’m convinced now that my siblings are at home waiting for me, though I hardly know why, and I don’t want to keep them waiting. We have to spend as much time together as we can, while we still have the chance.
Back at school, I dispose of my empty coffee cup and go inside. In the bathroom, I dry off as best as I could—I shake the water out of my hair and brush the snow from my backpack and my boyfriend’s hat. I slide that into the backpack at last. It will be safer there. I feel the need to keep it safe because it’s not mine. It’s his.
I wonder why I always hope people will give things to me freely when I know very well that that’s not the way this world works. I don’t need another hat. I’m not even sure why I have it—I just know he put it on my head one sunny day just before I was climbing into the Jeep, and he’s never accepted it back; I’ve tried to return it. It’s not that I don’t want it. I simply don’t understand why he thinks I should have it. I suppose girlfriends wear their boyfriends’ clothing. I suppose that’s why he thinks I should have it.
There’s no hope of drying off here, but I take my pills and slide my hoodie back on, secure my phone and MP3 player. When I get home it will be nice to take a hot shower. I don’t dare to hope for hot food though. That seems to be too much to ask for these days, though I have no idea why.
Everything is in place now. The hat is safe, the coffee is gone, and the snow outside is heavier than ever.
The weathermen were right.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Pretense
I guess it doesn't really matter to me anymore. This is the way things are, thanks to you, and I can't change them. I'm so sick of it. She's always before me, what she wants is so much more important than what I want--somehow it makes me feel like I don't exist in the first place. We don't buy orange juice because she can't drink it, we never have red meat, there are so many days now where there's no dinner at all, even after I've had a ten hour school day or an eight hour work day, and she's been at home doing nothing. She even interferes with things you've promised me, things I rightfully deserve. Even the dog takes precedence over me, or you wouldn't ask me to sacrifice part of my vaction to stay in Denver and watch it. I'm sick of being the last fucking thing on the totem pole. I'm not the fucking omega wolf. Not when she's so weak and I have to be so strong.
For the life of me, I can't figure out why she's more important than I am. She whines and bitches and you expect me to help around the house--why the fuck should I? She hasn't done anything all day, and the last thing I want to do when I get home from work or school is clean up her dirty kitchen or scrub your piss off the toilet stool. I don't know if she's noticed this at all, but she's more or less a housewife, and those are the things housewives are supposed to do; and if she's not even cooking dinner, what the hell is she doing?
You said she does a lot for us, but I can't see how. Maybe she does a lot for you, like in the bedroom or something, but not for me. I feel alienated and estranged by her. I feel oppressed and neglected and ignored.
I wish I could tell you all these things, so at least you'd understand how I feel, even if you can't fix it. But you just turn around and tell her everything, like a fucking middle school girl. It's like I can't trust you at all. Maybe it would be different if she were my mother, but she's not. And I'm not twelve.
I've tried so hard to get to know you, but you just mock me and tell me to get over things that are important to me. Things I need to care about. As far as I can tell, you've done your damndest to change my world view and indoctrinate me with your own ideas, which was something I never wanted. Part of me fears you've succeeded.
Whatever. It doesn't matter. You're moving away soon--you're just going to leave me, and then all my hard work will be for nothing. You're going to take her and go away, and I'll stay here and try to remember why I was so angry with you. I know I'm going to wish I'd told you all this--the reality will become grayed out in my memory, and I'll forget why I felt like I couldn't. Even more so, I'll regret not telling you this:
I don't want you to go, more than anything else, I don't want you to leave me again. After all this time, we're finally together again, and you're just going to run out on me, like you did before. I can't even tell you how much I hate that, because I'm afraid you won't care, and because I know it won't matter. Regardless of what I want, you have to go, and I have to stay.
So I wish I could tell you these things, about how I feel or how it hurts, about how I feel misunderstood and forgotten. Especially about how I feel like the last person in the world you care about. I wish I could tell you that I think she's come between us and that you've been somewhat unfair to me in order to make life comfortable for her.
But after almost two years, I think I finally know you, and I know from past experience--or rather I fear that history will repeat itself--and that you don't care very much about how I feel, and you refuse to make the needed effort to change yourself, or your life, or the way you interact with me, even for the sake of my happiness. I'm afraid you're just going to laugh at me and mock me all over again, and tell me I'm foolish and sentimental. Maybe you'll tell me to get over it.
So I don't care anymore. Put her before me. Have everything you want and leave me behind. I guess I have to come to terms with it: these other things are important to you. You have a new life, with a new woman and a new house and big, new plans, and I am part of your old life. The child of the woman you once loved. I suppose in my childishness, I believed I could become part of this new life, and that there would be room for me beside you. After all, I'm your daughter.
But I was wrong. There is no room for me. You don't miss your old life, and you don't want it back. You're going to go away and forget about me all over again, and there's not a damn thing I can do but to stay silent.
And pretend like I don't care.
For the life of me, I can't figure out why she's more important than I am. She whines and bitches and you expect me to help around the house--why the fuck should I? She hasn't done anything all day, and the last thing I want to do when I get home from work or school is clean up her dirty kitchen or scrub your piss off the toilet stool. I don't know if she's noticed this at all, but she's more or less a housewife, and those are the things housewives are supposed to do; and if she's not even cooking dinner, what the hell is she doing?
You said she does a lot for us, but I can't see how. Maybe she does a lot for you, like in the bedroom or something, but not for me. I feel alienated and estranged by her. I feel oppressed and neglected and ignored.
I wish I could tell you all these things, so at least you'd understand how I feel, even if you can't fix it. But you just turn around and tell her everything, like a fucking middle school girl. It's like I can't trust you at all. Maybe it would be different if she were my mother, but she's not. And I'm not twelve.
I've tried so hard to get to know you, but you just mock me and tell me to get over things that are important to me. Things I need to care about. As far as I can tell, you've done your damndest to change my world view and indoctrinate me with your own ideas, which was something I never wanted. Part of me fears you've succeeded.
Whatever. It doesn't matter. You're moving away soon--you're just going to leave me, and then all my hard work will be for nothing. You're going to take her and go away, and I'll stay here and try to remember why I was so angry with you. I know I'm going to wish I'd told you all this--the reality will become grayed out in my memory, and I'll forget why I felt like I couldn't. Even more so, I'll regret not telling you this:
I don't want you to go, more than anything else, I don't want you to leave me again. After all this time, we're finally together again, and you're just going to run out on me, like you did before. I can't even tell you how much I hate that, because I'm afraid you won't care, and because I know it won't matter. Regardless of what I want, you have to go, and I have to stay.
So I wish I could tell you these things, about how I feel or how it hurts, about how I feel misunderstood and forgotten. Especially about how I feel like the last person in the world you care about. I wish I could tell you that I think she's come between us and that you've been somewhat unfair to me in order to make life comfortable for her.
But after almost two years, I think I finally know you, and I know from past experience--or rather I fear that history will repeat itself--and that you don't care very much about how I feel, and you refuse to make the needed effort to change yourself, or your life, or the way you interact with me, even for the sake of my happiness. I'm afraid you're just going to laugh at me and mock me all over again, and tell me I'm foolish and sentimental. Maybe you'll tell me to get over it.
So I don't care anymore. Put her before me. Have everything you want and leave me behind. I guess I have to come to terms with it: these other things are important to you. You have a new life, with a new woman and a new house and big, new plans, and I am part of your old life. The child of the woman you once loved. I suppose in my childishness, I believed I could become part of this new life, and that there would be room for me beside you. After all, I'm your daughter.
But I was wrong. There is no room for me. You don't miss your old life, and you don't want it back. You're going to go away and forget about me all over again, and there's not a damn thing I can do but to stay silent.
And pretend like I don't care.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Best of the Best
Everyone loves you and we all know it. You're a breath of summer in a deadly winter, a gust of fresh air. You are a bright, yellow sun, rolling across a blue, cloudless sky. You flop my frown around, you remind me things are good, you always make my day--you always know just what to say. In every situation you are the voice of reason, always sensible, always cautious. I can always count on you, and I know I can trust you. I'm glad you feel like you can trust me too. Adventure in a can: pull the top open and out you pop, ready to sweep me away to wherever you're going, determined to have fun while you're at it. Even on the most serious business trips. You are insurmountable and unstoppable, never allowing any obstacle to overcome you, never letting go of the promises you've made. Not to yourself, and not to others. You've shown me truly, and much more deeply than anyone else, exactly what friendship is; so now I don't have to be afaid to fall anymore, because I know there's someone down below, watching, ready to catch me. I don't have to be afraid to be left behind: Wherever you go, whatever you do, follow your heart, and I'll be right beside you. Should something happen and I never see you again, rest assured, and remember that you will always be my friend.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Feels Like Home
Lying in the dry, dead grass, late on a chill but sunny day. The first of March, I realize, watching clouds drift by above me; and below me, miles and miles of open, flat land. Like a desert. A desert where whithered yellow runs forever, melting together with bright blue sky on the horizion, and the pale sun is the warmest thing I can touch or feel.
Neighborhoods flash by like pictures, bleeding by me like a blur of memories I can barely recall. Something happened. Once. Something that just slightly creeps in from the corner of my mind, like the sun rising over the earth, light falling across the moon.
I don't know when I fell in love with this city. I don't know how or why; such a cold thing, this city. So dirty and uncaring, so unlikely to forgive. Here, I must always have my eyes open, constantly watching, for if I shut them, even more a moment, this place will fold in around me, enclosing me in darkness, danger and fear. And yet there is nowhere on earth I'd rather be. This city is my friend, my family, my home. Most of all that I love or want resides here; it is a place of dreams and indescribably desires. A place to start a new life.
I turn onto my side, grass clinging to my clothes, twined through my hair, and I can see it in the distance. A hazy, gray block on the horizon, skyscrapers jutting into the blue, stabbing it. Reminding the rest of the world of how the west was won.
Flash forward one hour; we're cruising past leafless trees with rough, colorless bark; I see images, moving so quickly it's like they're running by me, rather than me rushing through them. I see children playing in the street, men walking dogs, women pushing strollers. I see drug pushers and hobos and businessmen with tidy suitcases and sharp suits. And the blood pounds in my veins, just to hear the music and remember, and to know that there's nothing like friendship.
There's nothing like freedom on a Monday afternoon when all the kids are in school; nothing like just being with somebody-the best friend you didn't know existed-and talking and relating and simply being real. Simply being there for one another. Something about it takes me back. I don't know what it is about this day, but something makes me remember other days, long gone by, when life was simpler, and I was younger, and all life's opportunities were just hovering out their, like fat, red apples just waiting to be plucked. Something feels like home.
Now the sun is setting in the west, ducking down behind far-off buildings and sinking into white-capped mountains. I'm sitting beside you, and I'm not sure I've ever felt like this before. Whatever this feeling is, I don't want it to go away. I don't want to wake tomorrow and find that these emotions we're sharing fled with the stars. Because I like this. The way it feels to have you beside me, against me, the warmth of your hands, the brush of your nose. Even when I close my eyes I can still taste you, hear your boyish laugh in my ear. And I've never felt so small, so delicate, so feminine. I've never felt so beautiful.
Maybe some day, that feeling will disappear. It might fade into the morning. But come what may, there shall never be something more romantic to me than listening to you breathe beneath the Denver sun, and stretching out on the grass in your arms. For now there is only this memory, and only this hope for tomorrow and the day that follows.
There is only a wildly beating, girlish heart that reaches out with inexperienced fingers to grasp smooth leather, and holds on tightly, until the sun is gone.
Neighborhoods flash by like pictures, bleeding by me like a blur of memories I can barely recall. Something happened. Once. Something that just slightly creeps in from the corner of my mind, like the sun rising over the earth, light falling across the moon.
I don't know when I fell in love with this city. I don't know how or why; such a cold thing, this city. So dirty and uncaring, so unlikely to forgive. Here, I must always have my eyes open, constantly watching, for if I shut them, even more a moment, this place will fold in around me, enclosing me in darkness, danger and fear. And yet there is nowhere on earth I'd rather be. This city is my friend, my family, my home. Most of all that I love or want resides here; it is a place of dreams and indescribably desires. A place to start a new life.
I turn onto my side, grass clinging to my clothes, twined through my hair, and I can see it in the distance. A hazy, gray block on the horizon, skyscrapers jutting into the blue, stabbing it. Reminding the rest of the world of how the west was won.
Flash forward one hour; we're cruising past leafless trees with rough, colorless bark; I see images, moving so quickly it's like they're running by me, rather than me rushing through them. I see children playing in the street, men walking dogs, women pushing strollers. I see drug pushers and hobos and businessmen with tidy suitcases and sharp suits. And the blood pounds in my veins, just to hear the music and remember, and to know that there's nothing like friendship.
There's nothing like freedom on a Monday afternoon when all the kids are in school; nothing like just being with somebody-the best friend you didn't know existed-and talking and relating and simply being real. Simply being there for one another. Something about it takes me back. I don't know what it is about this day, but something makes me remember other days, long gone by, when life was simpler, and I was younger, and all life's opportunities were just hovering out their, like fat, red apples just waiting to be plucked. Something feels like home.
Now the sun is setting in the west, ducking down behind far-off buildings and sinking into white-capped mountains. I'm sitting beside you, and I'm not sure I've ever felt like this before. Whatever this feeling is, I don't want it to go away. I don't want to wake tomorrow and find that these emotions we're sharing fled with the stars. Because I like this. The way it feels to have you beside me, against me, the warmth of your hands, the brush of your nose. Even when I close my eyes I can still taste you, hear your boyish laugh in my ear. And I've never felt so small, so delicate, so feminine. I've never felt so beautiful.
Maybe some day, that feeling will disappear. It might fade into the morning. But come what may, there shall never be something more romantic to me than listening to you breathe beneath the Denver sun, and stretching out on the grass in your arms. For now there is only this memory, and only this hope for tomorrow and the day that follows.
There is only a wildly beating, girlish heart that reaches out with inexperienced fingers to grasp smooth leather, and holds on tightly, until the sun is gone.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Ok, Newbie GO
Saturdays really clip along at the hobby shop. There's people pouring in and trickling out slowly, wandering through the ailes for hour after hour. Today, one woman approached the cash register and announced rather fecklessly that she had lost her husband.
"Caboose Hobbies: Stealing Husbands since 1938."
It's strange to be the one behind the counter for once. Strange to be the one counting the money out, worrying about giving back the incorrect amount of change rather than getting it. Strange to be the one fumbling with the bag while they stand there, holding the credit card. It's strange to be the one who has to have all the answers, and difficult to not have any.
The strangest part though, by far, is to be the 'new kid.' I've always been so comfortable with where I am and who I'm with, it's difficult for me to be in a learning situation, especially when no one is learning along side me. I can't help feel embarassed when I make a mistake or I have to ask my coworkers to explain something--again.However, I like to feel that I'm a fast learner, so I convince myself that I'm doing well. I've memorized most of my coworker's names, and I have the art of cashiering pretty well covered.
There are still a lot of bugs to work out of my not-so-skilled technique, but there's time to learn them.
Plenty of time.
Paul has worked at the hobby store for four years, Mara for five, Antje for God knows how long. I hopefully won't be there for more than two.Just two more. Two more to scan and smile, even when I don't want to. To scan and wish strangers a nice day, like a robot. Two years before I graduate and go away.
This is not my career. This is just my job.
"Caboose Hobbies: Stealing Husbands since 1938."
It's strange to be the one behind the counter for once. Strange to be the one counting the money out, worrying about giving back the incorrect amount of change rather than getting it. Strange to be the one fumbling with the bag while they stand there, holding the credit card. It's strange to be the one who has to have all the answers, and difficult to not have any.
The strangest part though, by far, is to be the 'new kid.' I've always been so comfortable with where I am and who I'm with, it's difficult for me to be in a learning situation, especially when no one is learning along side me. I can't help feel embarassed when I make a mistake or I have to ask my coworkers to explain something--again.However, I like to feel that I'm a fast learner, so I convince myself that I'm doing well. I've memorized most of my coworker's names, and I have the art of cashiering pretty well covered.
There are still a lot of bugs to work out of my not-so-skilled technique, but there's time to learn them.
Plenty of time.
Paul has worked at the hobby store for four years, Mara for five, Antje for God knows how long. I hopefully won't be there for more than two.Just two more. Two more to scan and smile, even when I don't want to. To scan and wish strangers a nice day, like a robot. Two years before I graduate and go away.
This is not my career. This is just my job.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tales from the Institute Pt. 1
Welcome to my blog.
I don't need another website to manage--I can barely keep up with facebook and deviantart. And I don't even like the internet. Really. I hate wasting time on the internet; and yet here I am. Brilliant.
It's not like I need practice writing--I write enough as it is, and it's not as if I need someone's approval or their affirmation. Maybe I'm attention deprived.
It's more likely that I'm bored. This room is freezing. It's always freezing here. Except in the summer, when the AC stops working and the heat suddenly kicks in. It's impossible to sleep when it's so cold, so I surf the net. I should be paying attention, but I can't. So I surf the net. And I wind up making new accounts for sites like this one, looking at the clock and sighing, wishing 11:30 would come.
An hour and a half left. God, it feels like forever. But I think this place has changed my perception of time... I'm not sure how. I guess when you sit for four hours at a time, in one place, day after day, hours don't feel the same. They become minutes instead. Then the waiting is easier, the day is too short, and life itself seems like it's moving too quickly.
I've been here for almost two years now--two years in August--and I can't decide if I love it or hate it. I suppose I love parts of it. And they can help me. Still, it's so much money, and half the time I wind up not feeling good enough.
Regardless, in less than two years, I'll be leaving this place. Out into the proverbial "real world."
I'm not sure what the real world is anymore. My whole life people have been talking about the real world, but no one's clear about when it begins. I used to think that after I graduated high school I'd be in the real world. Or when I got a job. I've done both now, and still people tell me I have yet to get into the real world.
If this world is not real, then what is it?
I don't need another website to manage--I can barely keep up with facebook and deviantart. And I don't even like the internet. Really. I hate wasting time on the internet; and yet here I am. Brilliant.
It's not like I need practice writing--I write enough as it is, and it's not as if I need someone's approval or their affirmation. Maybe I'm attention deprived.
It's more likely that I'm bored. This room is freezing. It's always freezing here. Except in the summer, when the AC stops working and the heat suddenly kicks in. It's impossible to sleep when it's so cold, so I surf the net. I should be paying attention, but I can't. So I surf the net. And I wind up making new accounts for sites like this one, looking at the clock and sighing, wishing 11:30 would come.
An hour and a half left. God, it feels like forever. But I think this place has changed my perception of time... I'm not sure how. I guess when you sit for four hours at a time, in one place, day after day, hours don't feel the same. They become minutes instead. Then the waiting is easier, the day is too short, and life itself seems like it's moving too quickly.
I've been here for almost two years now--two years in August--and I can't decide if I love it or hate it. I suppose I love parts of it. And they can help me. Still, it's so much money, and half the time I wind up not feeling good enough.
Regardless, in less than two years, I'll be leaving this place. Out into the proverbial "real world."
I'm not sure what the real world is anymore. My whole life people have been talking about the real world, but no one's clear about when it begins. I used to think that after I graduated high school I'd be in the real world. Or when I got a job. I've done both now, and still people tell me I have yet to get into the real world.
If this world is not real, then what is it?
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